“Bill? Bridget?”
“Nothing. And we’re about two blocks away from the library,” Bridget said. “Maybe he only knew the one way to get there. Or maybe he wanted us to see the sights. Look, I appreciate your concern, but it's closer to the library than the river so…”
“Right,” I replied. “But let's keep our guard up until we get there.”
We continued on our route, but without any of the previous sightseeing activity. Every sense was tuned, every reflex on hair-trigger. If someone had innocently popped out of the doorway at that point they might've met an unfortunate end.
Bridget halted abruptly and Bill almost walked into her. “What do you guys always call it? Spidey Sense?” She motioned to the square ahead of us were an ornately official building sported a large sign that translated as Sanctuary of the Written Word.
“What is it, Bridge?” There were a couple of people talking outside the door of the library, but I couldn't see anything else.
“I'm not sure. One of those guys there started to turn toward us, then aborted the move with a jerk like someone who’d just been told ‘don't look, you idiot’.”
We stood in one spot for several seconds, indecisive. Then Bill said, “So let's see what happens when we try to leave.”
With that, he wheeled and strode off. The rest of us looked at each other briefly, then turned and followed him.
And all hell broke loose.
There was a shout behind us, followed immediately by an answering call. Out of doorways and alleys, more than a dozen Quinlans emerged at full gallop. And I do mean gallop, they were on all fours. A much quicker mode of travel, and they were carrying swords in their mouths. Pirate style.
“Uh-oh. I don't think this is the welcome wagon. Time to be elsewhere.”
“Thanks Bob, for that insightful analysis,” Bridget said. “Now move your ass or get out of my way.”
Without waiting for me to make up my mind, she shot past me, heading for the dock. The direct way, too. Apparently, she'd checked Garfield's map. And no surprise the welcome wagon had thought we might do that. Six more Quinlans appeared in front of us, sporting either very large knives or short swords. I wasn't inclined to stop and take a measurement, and three of them had what appeared to be holstered pistols. Tranq guns? I jacked slightly - not enough to lose connection with the Manny, but enough to have time for a conversation. The others synced automatically.
“How many?”
“I saw 6 in front and 12 behind. Some of the ones in front have tranq guns.”
“14 behind,” Garfield said, correcting Bridget's assessment.
“Big gap to the left, we could make for that.”
“This is well-planned hit, Bob, they left a big gap to a whole street by accident? I don't think so.”
Bill was right. “Good point, let's not go that way.”
“We're not going to go through them. Not with those pig stickers,” Garfield said.
“It may be time to loosen up on the no-impossible-moves rule. I don’t want to end up as sushi.” For Bridget, that was a significant concession. Or gift wrapped.
“Agreed,” Bill added. “Let's go through the 6 in front, full gonzo.”
I received three acks, and shifted my Manny and overdrive. Not that it turned into a transformer anything, but the internal power supply jacked up to full output, all internal nanites deployed for possible damage, and fake blood circulation was increased to handle the higher cooling requirements. There would need to be some maintenance done later.
The scene slowed in my visual field, and I took the time to estimate angles and distances. Garfield and Bridget had already picked lines that would take them either around or through the defensive ends, so I was going to have to go through the middle of the line. I glanced at Bill, who seem to have the same idea as me. We ran straight at the line accelerating as only a mechanical otter can, then went down on all fours as we came to just outside of weapon range. As expected, the Quinlans aimed their steady things downward at us. We leaped and sailed right over them.
Quinlans can jump, of course, but not like this. In Quinlan terms, this wasn't quite like doing a pole vault without the pole, but it would definitely be a record-breaking high jump. And long jump. And sprint. We hit the ground, just as Garfield and Bridget came around the ends of the line, having straight armed their opponents as they stopped to look up. They dropped to all fours, our afterburners cut in, and we disappeared down the street faster than they could possibly keep up with. A couple of pings off nearby walls led me to believe that at least one of them was now shooting at us as well.
There was a brief astonished silence behind us, which was good, then a bunch of shouted warnings which was bad. They weren’t shouting at each other - this was shouting directed at someone far away. I had a bad feeling we weren't done.
“Detour, guys, the direct route is booby-trapped or staked out or something.”
Three acks. No one was sparing energy for speeches. We made an abrupt left at the next intersection, still setting a pace that would make a Quinlan Olympian quit in despair. Assuming they had Olympics.
More shouts.
“We’ve pissed them off, at least.”
“To the left, up there,” Bill said.
I looked in the indicated direction. Huh, not bad. A three-story building with a flat roof and a reasonable climbing route, if you're into parkour. It would be fair to say that Quinlans are not climbers, and it would not occur to them that we might climb drainpipes and hop roofs.
Bill led, we followed. Mechanical muscles and computer reflexes ensured no oopsies, and in seconds, we were lying flat on top of a roof. There is
